Only My Subconscious Cares
by Ghost Of Bellatrix
Summary: AUPOA The potion didn't work. The end of Hermione's third year brought three unexpected deaths, only one took a toll on her. She learns to cope with it by putting her subconscious into overdrive. Only her subconscious cares. Not depressing. SSHG
1. Thankyou for flying Thai airlines

_-Only my subconscious cares-_

_-1-_

_-Thank-you for flying Thai Airlines-

* * *

_

The potion had failed.

At least- that's what they told everyone when Harry Potter's body disappeared from Hogwarts and reappeared in the possession of Peter Pettigrew three days later at Godric's Hollow.

The potion had failed.

Voldemort is but a bad memory these days. You could compare his memory to that of spilling hot tea all over your trousers and then being left no option but to wear the tea-trousers all day. Both memories seem hideous in their own glorious way. And Voldemort never came back. He was tossed into a potion and eaten alive (Or un-dead) by sulfuric acid. Almost makes you feel sorry for him. Almost. And so the Dark Era was over, for now.

The potion had failed.

You're never quite sure what to do with yourself when your best friend dies. Some would act like nothing had happened- They're just out for the day, they'll be back tomorrow. Some would act like the world decided to do them a personal wrong- lock yourself in your room, the world can't hurt you in there. Some would grieve openly, on everyone's shoulder, in every place possible, as much as possible- 'Oh God, he's gone! The world will never be the same!' they'd cry into shoulder number sixty-five while making loud honking noises to piss off the good-Samaritan stupid enough to care. Though, in my entire fifteen small years, I never once would have suspected that he'd be gone. Damned teenaged immortality. But I didn't pretend it never happened, I didn't lock myself in my room and I didn't cry like flooding rain on everyone around me.

I handled my grief in two manners. Discreetly and quietly. In the privacy of my room, I used egg cartons on my walls to keep the noise in. And only then would the screaming, crying and carrying on commence. Many broken vases still sit on the bedside table, awaiting repair. Many pictures are pinned to my cupboard, our old smiles only keeping me in my black abyss.

Eight weeks of mourning was enough. Not one owl from Ronald, my other supposed best friend. The shock of not caring was bigger than the shock of the news that he'd killed himself. So, all in all, the bossy brainy chick of the trio was reduced to a solo act- one that, apparently, no one cared for.

But that was okay. Everything is fucking peachy. I'm just fine- really! I've a compartment to myself, and I don't have to worry about anyone else falling asleep and snoring like my great Grandma Ursula- and she could snore. Loudly and with a vile stench. With my nose in a book, I'm looking at the words and my subconscious is processing the information, but I'm not actually reading the words. So far, I've learned a lot about Salazar Slytherin's reasoning to want his pureblood inbreds separate from muggleborns.

The book is almost as enjoyable as shoving your head into a blender while singing 'Mary had a little lamb' in opera style. Crookshanks was off snuggling up to Ginny Weasley, that stupid cow. Stealing the attentions of a witch's Familiar- right when she'd love to have a great lump of breathing, malting, purring fur in her own lap.

Sometimes, just when you feel detached from the world- perhaps enough to completely cut ties with it and do the Full Monty, i.e. Kill yourself, you get random little thoughts flitting across your brain like 'Hello, I'm Mr. Clippy, assistant paper clip in Microsoft Word. I can see it looks like you are writing a suicide note, you should realize no one cares anyway, and '_Goodbye cruel world_' is much more cliché than it sounds.'

But no, Salazar Slytherin just wanted muggleborns to marry each other and make _more_ inbred families for the purebloods to choose from. No wonder everyone thought he was a prick. He's as bad as Americans. Damn yanks and their Starbucks Coffee. While their all-holy economy is going, perhaps they can massacre English literature. That's excellent, Borders- Stick pulp fiction writers like Jodi Piccoult with Jane Austen, a Goddess of the English language, that's great.

Dressing in the same damn uniforms as I'd done for the past four years and absently staring at the ring around my left little finger, I briefly wondered where on Earth I'd picked up a serpent ring. It was hardly unattractive, and perhaps it would create some controversy that I could cunningly ignore, while remembering how to bottle fame, brew glory and even put a stopper in moronism.

The ride to the castle was much as it always had been- only this year there were giant ugly horses. One would only assume that if you could see these hideous creatures, it meant that you were lucky enough to see the death of a human near you. Enough with the morbid thoughts though, my mind isn't a morgue- yet.

There you have it. While the magical world is falling apart at the seams with Death Eaters just wondering _what_ to do with themselves now, a bunch of hormonal teenagers and old senile faculty members are sitting around, feasting on every known species to man- even a few that aren't. Is there an _eye_ in that soup? Charming. The chatter at the Gryffindor table consisted of food, families and Quidditch. Boy- people certainly know how to add a little variety to their conversation. In the back of my mind, I realize with very little surprise that I am engaging in conversation- it's about Harry and Ron. I think I'm talking to Ginevra, can't be sure though- I'm not actually paying any attention to the participant.

Well, here's what I can vaguely remember the stupid chit saying.

"You must be taking things pretty hard, Mione- I didn't leave my room for a week once I got home." I can now confirm that I am speaking to the Weasley girl- only she would do something so self absorbed.

"I have neither the time or mental capacity to remain in one room for longer than twelve hours at a stretch." I respond, refilling my juice and charming it to intoxicate me.

"Surely you did some major crying, though, right? I mean, you and Ronny got along pretty well. We'd always assume you'd end up together." _Ronny_? She's gone mental. And what does she mean I'd end up with Ronald? He was an insipid hothead who could play chess and brew potions- badly- while asking for help every fifty-three seconds. Its fact that he did it every fifty-three seconds because I'd timed him. It was one of_ those_ days. The kind where you're just running on auto-pilot and the captain has fallen asleep at the controls. 'Attention passengers of flight 20958, this is your captain speaking- I took a nap during the middle of the flight and I believe we are somewhere over the Antarctic Ocean, there will be a short delay of the rest of your lives as we have no fuel and no realistic way for any of you unlucky sods to survive in these conditions. Thank-you for flying Thai Airlines and enjoy the rest of your flight.'

The silly girl took my silence as an agreement and continued. "It must be so hard… Young love nipped in the bud before it was even fully formed…" Ginevra sighed dreamily.

"I apologize for any misconceptions, dear Ginny, but I was in no way romantically inclined towards your brother." There. That ought to shut the hole in the middle of her face for a while.

The headmaster stood- looking at the (Senile and manipulative) old man, I noticed that his eyes were open slightly wider than was usual and his hair had braids through it. Bad attempt at fashion, Albus. Very bad. "Good evening, Hogwarts!"

Oh dear. He's beaming again. What can one possibly do to shield themselves from the blinding fake-cheer of Albus Dumbledore? The school mumbled a 'Good evening professor Dumbledore' in that psychotic sing-song way that makes everyone want to stab their eyes out and then pour vinegar mixed with lemon juice all over the soon-to-be infected gaping eye wounds.

"Very good, very good." Save us all- he's still beaming. "Now, we've had some changes in staff this year as Professor Snape has suddenly disappeared without warning, we have his predecessor, Professor Slughorn!"

Nearly the entire school cheered madly- I didn't. I'm sure I had that deadened look in my eyes as I stared at the fat, ugly, warty (not to mention _sluggy_) old man wondering where my silky-voiced, well-spoken, fantastically intelligent potions master had gone.

It was something of a crime, although my face gave nothing away. Occlumency 101- control your face first.

"And in place of Imposter Moody, may I present Professor Umbridge who is to take up position of Defense Against The Dark Arts!" she gave a speech that made the entire school feel like five or six year olds, one, if they had half a brain would get a bare message through her prettied up words. Ministry hates Hogwarts. Hm. It will be interesting to see how to get _this_ professor tossed off the post of DADA professor. Indirectly, I've been responsible for three of the four DADA professors leaving Hogwarts.

"What you heard was a _lie_. Harry Potter simply died from overdose of-" Cruciatus curse, say it, toad face! "Magical mushrooms"

Laughing internally, I could feel my body shake. The hysteria subsided and the negative emotions flowed back. Feeling annoyed at the sudden departure of the snarky bastard, making my way up to the dormitories without incident was difficult. In less than four minutes, Peeves had successfully set off the fire-sprinkler charms, blown up the girl's lavatory on the third floor, dumped pudding all over an unsuspecting first year, rearranged the faces of six sculptures and four paintings, pelted flaming marshmallows at a group of Ravenclaw's and tore the Fat Lady off her hinges, threatening to drop her off the top of the astronomy tower if he wasn't given full rights as a poltergeist. Someone needs to push him through the veil and send him plenty of dung bombs to last him his eternity.

For once, elf slavery is useful- the bed I lay in is warm and comfortable. The satin sheets are nice to fall asleep in.

* * *

Authors Note: Anyone reading my other story would notice that this story is -very-very-very- very different from my regular writing style. In fact, I was going to write this story in regular Trelawney-doom-and-gloom style, but kept on ending up with funny bits of opinion to stick in there. Like that thing on American economy? That's because Borders really DOES stick Jane Austen with Jodi Piccoult. Bad move, Borders, very bad. Anyway, if this toss is worth continuing, give me a shout and I'll have fun with more politically incorrect analogies.


	2. My Brain Can Play Bass Guitar Badly

_-Only My Subconscious Cares.-_

_-2- _

_-My Brain Can Play Bass Guitar... Badly.-_

* * *

In all my life, have I never met a man as moronic as Professor Slughorn. He spent the first five minutes of his class expressing how he was a materialistic wanker, and then the next ten telling us that he was very overqualified for this job and the class should feel lucky to have him as a potions professor. He 'boomed joyfully' as one might say, and said something about Professor Snape being entirely too dreary to have as a teacher. My head never rose from the paper as I made a dossier on him. It looked like this by the end…

* * *

Name: Prof. Stuart 'Sluggy' Slughorn 

DOB: 13th August 1934

Starsign: Leo

Education: 'Wittle Wizarding wizzes' (1936-1945)

Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft and Wizardry (1946-1953)

Potions Apprenticeship (Groulda Myoren, 1954-1960)

Potions Masters (Chee-Yo Mang, 1961-1965)

Lives: Forty-five minute walk from Hogsmeade, close to magical village of Scuttleburg. ("Big white house- can't miss it.")

Blood: Pure

Appeareance: Mid-70's, Wrinkled, 5'10", brown eyes, grey hair (Pulled back into a ponytail), early70's style robes, a lot of gold jewellery.

Enjoys: Reading, spending money, getting drunk and making 'contacts', making his house look like a murder scene

Dislikes: 'Childish disputes over parentage', Professor's Vector, Snape and Trelawney

Connection to Dumbledore: Professor Dumbledore was an apprentice while Slughorn was in Hogwarts.

Potions: -Is the love of his 'miserable life'

-Studied it since he could read

Entrance to Slug Club: -Parentage (If he liked your parents, you're in.)

-Grade Entry (If you achieve good grades, you're in.)

-Money Entry (If you are particularly loaded, you're in.)

-Connection Entry (If you've got good connections, you're in.)

-Politics Entry (If you've got influence in politics, you're in.)

* * *

In the end, he's not at all as great as he says he is, after the quarter-hour Sluggy intro, he sets us to work on finding antidotes to an unlabelled poison.

I didn't notice myself walking up to grab my poison until I was back at my seat and day-dreaming of the time when Professor Snape first bullied Harry. 'A Bezoar stone will cure most poisons…' And before I knew it, the stone was sitting in front of me. Simply amazing. Like the time where I figured out that a Basilisk was the creature petrifying everything. I'm simply amazing. Although why you'd want to _cure_ someone that you've just _poisoned_, I have no idea. It's almost like shooting someone in the stomach four times and rushing them off to the emergency ward to have them fixed. Comical.

Lavender was angry with me for not sharing answers. Almost like when Ronald was beetroot purple in the face, lecturing me about 'real friendship', when the next day, he didn't tell me someone had taped 'resident know-it-all' to my back. If he thought we had real friendship, then why did he commit suicide without saying goodbye? Not that it really matters- I'd have had to try prevent the joyous event from ensuing. _'No, Ronald! Don't do it!' _'But Mione, he's gone!' _'And so is Moldyshorts!'_ 'But this is _Harry_, Mione!'- Sounds like the ignorant hothead. I brushed Lavender off with a not-well-thought-through insult involving the mockery of crystal balls and tea-leaf reading… _ I see! I see with my inner eye! I see pain, death and suffering!_- It's called life, Trelawney, maybe we could dig out your inner eye with spoons- just so it hurts more.

Somewhere between Potions and Transfigurations, I noticed that the serpent ring was still on my finger. Looking at it intently, I suddenly remembered how I acquired it. It was in a detention (Shocking, isn't it?) with Professor Snape and he left the ring on the desk. I loved the look of it, like I would have a serpent wrapped around my little finger. I pilfered it, and have worn it ever since- even in Potions class. If the snarky bastard ever noticed, he never mentioned it. In fact, maybe he wanted me to have it. Perhaps it's cursed and it will make me slowly slip into my world of ignorant bliss.

If I were paying any attention at all, I'd realise that I'm working in Transfigurations. Professor McGonagall is having us turn cushions into animals, she mentioned that we should start small. Small compared to what? A dragon? A Basilisk? Lion cubs are small- and it'd be true to my Gryffindor colours. Almost like the time where Harry swallowed one of Fred and George's experiments and could only roar like a lion for five days straight. Of course they had a cure, they just thought it would be funnier to leave him roaring.

Soon enough, there's a litter of lion cubs at my feet and I have no idea how they got there. The idea of suddenly transfiguring six cushions into lion cubs is similar to finding out you're a father. 'Oh _bollocks_! You're kidding me right?' - No, sir. The DNA results were conclusive-.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. A fast, magical blur. Like those Muggle pictures, where they have still pictures that they move very, very, very fast until it looks like it's moving? It's akin to that. Having no idea how I completed my homework and what I ate for dinner, I stared blankly out the tower window, hoping that they spelled the windows to prevent suicide-attempts. Not for myself, of course, but for that self-absorbed Ginevra Weasley. '_I'm going to jump!'_ 'Don't do it!' _'Okay!'_.

An explosion and a chorus of 'Y_eeeeee_s!' filled my subconscious and alerted my conscious. I looked up, feigning interest, seeing Fredrick and George Weasley handing out some kind of unlabelled candy. In the thought of self-preservation, I escape the common room, taking to a nice wandering around the halls- not that I was paying my direction any attention in the slightest. I vaguely recall breaking into Professor Trelawney's tower and tipping all her Sherry onto her piles of overstuffed cushions (And set them alight). Filch must have been busy shagging that strange cat of his, because usually Mrs. Norris has an eye (Nose or sixth-sense) for every misdeed. But one as insipid as a squib can hardly expect to find a significant-other of the same species.

By the time I returned to my bed, it was well past midnight and there were at least four more fires destroying the inside of Trelawney's tower. Damn shame that.

Breakfast the next morning brought a pounding headache and a furious headmaster. I ignored him completely- realising that it was more than likely about my extra-curricular activities. I paid more attention to my headache, wondering where I could find some kind of drug to stop my brain from thinking it can play the bass guitar (Badly). Somehow I ended up with my school bag open and my packet of sacred Muggle codeine in my hand. Popping two of those, I was blind, deaf and dumb to the world. The table rose up to meet my face and I decided that a short nap wouldn't be out of the question.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Hey, dudes! I had a positive response, I guess (an alert and a favourite story) so I posted up chapter two. My chapters are fairly short for this story, but I like it that way. The information on Slughorn was entirely fictional, I only assumed he was a Leo because he's quite eccentric and 'boomy' as one would say (God I hate him.). Anyway, as I mentioned in the summary this _is_ an SS-HG, and I'm about to get to the point (I swear.)  
-Enjoy, Kiddies! Remember- Reviews make plot bunnies multiply :) 


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